


deranged to divine

by extasiswings



Series: enemies of time [2]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Free Garcia Flynn 2k17, Post-Finale, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: "They don't own you, Lucy. They're not here. Your decisions are your own."She swallows hard, but her voice still cracks when she responds. "What if they aren't?""Then do the unexpected," Flynn offers. "That way you can be sure it's what you want."Do the unexpected...





	

_Fuck Rittenhouse. Fuck Rittenhouse and everything they stand for._

Lucy is exhausted. Between being captured by Rittenhouse on their most recent mission, the hours of research the team puts in every time they have to return to the present, and anxiety wearing away at her every time she tries to close her eyes, it's been at least two full days since she slept for more than an hour or two. On top of that, the mission? They'd ultimately failed. Rittenhouse had killed Wallis Simpson, thereby preventing the abdication of Edward VIII and changing British history forever. And to add further insult to injury, (or just further injury), Wyatt had gotten shot trying to rescue her (nothing life-threatening, but enough to slow them all down, enough to make her worry), so suffice it to say when the Lifeboat lands, Lucy bolts as soon as possible. 

She's exhausted and numb and sick of feeling like a goddamn failure because they keep losing and she just wants one minute to herself, one minute where she won't have to think about Rittenhouse and their plans for the timeline, for her. 

(She wants one minute of silence from the voice in the back of her head whispering that Rittenhouse is blood, that they'll get what they want eventually, that it would be easier to give in. It sounds like her father. She hates that voice)

She doesn't go far—there's a shed out behind the safe house that offers at least some privacy. As soon as Lucy reaches it, she closes the door behind her, presses her forehead to the wall, and breathes. 

In the silence of the dark shed, everything she's been trying not to feel for weeks, for months, bubbles up inside her. Her eyes burn with tears of anger and frustration, and when they spill over despite her best efforts, Lucy slams her palms against the hard wood. 

It feels good. It hurts, but it's focused, deliberate, and it feels good so she curls her hands into fists and does it again and again and again. 

Her hands are going to be bruised in the morning, but Lucy doesn't care. She wants to hurt. She wants to scream. She wants to break things. 

(She wants to burn Rittenhouse to the ground, but she can't because. She. Keeps. Failing)

The shed door creaks open and Lucy whirls around, aiming her fist at the intruder on instinct. Flynn catches her wrist, concern glinting in his eyes as his gaze sweeps over her. Christ, she must look a mess to make even Flynn care. 

(He may have joined the team after she'd broken him out of his secret black ops prison, but his pain and anger lingers between them like an almost tangible thing. Lucy can't blame him for any of it. 

_"I trusted you with my daughter!"_

She doubts she'll ever be free of the guilt of her accidental betrayal)

"You didn't have to follow me," Lucy says. "I'm fine."

It's dark in the shed, the only light the dim streaks of moonlight filtering through the scattered windows. But even in the shadows she can plainly read that he sees right through the blatant lie. 

"You shouldn't be alone," Flynn replies, tactfully refraining from explicitly calling her out. He hasn't let go of her—just as she recognizes that fact, his hand slides down to cover her fist and gently coaxes it open until her hand stretches out flat. It aches where she'd been hitting the wall, but his touch is feather-light as he surveys the damage. 

It's too soft. It's more than she can handle from anyone right now, but certainly more than she deserves from him. 

"Why? Afraid I might have turned into a secret Rittenhouse agent while your backs were turned?" Lucy shoots back. 

_Come on, Flynn_. She wants him to rise to the bait, to fight with her. Fighting with him makes sense. It doesn't leave her unsettled and adrift like she is now. 

Flynn doesn't take it though. His jaw clenches for a moment, but then relaxes again, and he drops her hand only to reach for her other one. 

"You're not working for Rittenhouse, Lucy," he says, as easily as if he were correcting someone on the weather. It shouldn't bother her—after all, it's true—but it does. She blames sleep deprivation for her response. 

"What if I am?" Flynn's fingers pause amidst their examination of her second hand and Lucy rushes to clarify. "I mean—what if—what if everything we've been doing, everything we've tried, what if we've just been playing into their hands the whole time? What if I'm helping them without even knowing it just because of who I am? I don't know what they want from me, what if—"

"Lucy." Flynn's voice is firm and the interruption cuts off both her words and the spiraling panic accompanying them. 

(This is what keeps her up at night: the question of what exactly it means that she's some sort of Rittenhouse royalty, of whether their little team can actually accomplish anything or if they're fooling themselves even trying)

"You know, sometimes I wonder whether I made the right choice stopping you in 1954," Lucy confesses. In the darkness, in the silence, just giving voice to the thought feels like a benediction. 

"Maybe it would be better." She won't look at his face, fixing her eyes on where his thumb rests over her knuckle. 

"Maybe what would be better?" Flynn asks warily. When she doesn’t reply he fills in the blanks. "If you didn't exist? No. It wouldn't be." 

Lucy hates the conviction in his voice. _You should hate me_ , she thinks. _Why don't you?_

"I can't make a single decision without second-guessing it," she admits. "I can't make a single choice for myself without wondering if it's something they want me to do. They had my whole life planned out, you know. The guy I was engaged to? Rittenhouse. Ninety percent of my social circle before I ran off to be a vigilante time bandit? Rittenhouse. It's like my life isn't even really mine."

Flynn only takes a step closer, but given his height he manages to completely fill her personal space. She could step back—it's been some time since he was this close, close enough that she can feel the heat of him through his clothes, and it feels dangerous—but she doesn't. 

His free hand tips her chin up so he can meet her gaze. 

"They don't own you, Lucy," he murmurs. "They're not here. Your decisions are your own."

She swallows hard, but her voice still cracks when she responds. "What if they aren't?"

"Then do the unexpected," Flynn offers. "That way you can be sure it's what you want."

_Do the unexpected..._

_What do you want, Lucy?_

_I don't want to think._

If there's one thing Lucy is positive Rittenhouse would never want her to do, it's kiss Garcia Flynn. Which is why she has zero qualms about leaning up on her toes and dragging his mouth down to hers. 

(If she's honest with herself, she's wanted him for a long time, far longer than she should have)

"Lucy—" Flynn breaks the kiss, unspoken questions in the eyes searching her face for answers. But she doesn't have any to give. 

"Please," she breathes, pulling him down again. She feels the exact moment he surrenders because his hands fall to her hips, gripping her tightly through the 30s skirts she hadn't bothered to change out of. 

Flynn kisses like he fights, calculated but only barely controlled, designed for maximum destruction. And oh, Christ, is he good at it. When Lucy breaks the kiss to catch her breath, he sets his mouth to her neck instead and the nip of teeth over her pulse point makes her knees weak. 

While she still has her balance, she tugs him over to the small workbench Wyatt uses when he cleans his guns. Flynn’s on his knees before she can blink, hands sliding up her stockinged thighs, but stopping before reaching where she really wants him.

“Lucy,” his voice is all smoke, and the way his tongue curls around her name practically demands that she kiss him again. He swallows her gasp when his thumb finally seeks out her clit through silken underwear, circling her with slow and deliberate passes. 

She _wants_. 

Lucy claws at Flynn’s shirt, his buttons, the knot in his tie, torn between wanting to keep him close (or pull him closer) and just wanting the damn things off. She stops when he tugs her underwear to the side and thrusts two fingers into her—it’s not as though she was having much success and dropping her forehead to his shoulder as he takes her apart seems like a much better idea.

She gives herself over to sensation then, pleasure sparking hot in her blood. Seconds or minutes or hours later she comes with a choked off cry, burying her face in Flynn’s neck as his clever fingers continue to play over her until she pushes them away. 

As soon as Lucy catches her breath, she lifts her head and reaches for his waistband, but he catches her hand and draws it away. When she looks at him in confusion, he gives her the faintest hint of a smile and shakes his head.

“You’re exhausted, Lucy,” Flynn says. “You need sleep. Not sex.”

 _Why can’t I have both_ , she’s half-inclined to grumble, but given the moment’s pause and her body’s reaction to her own orgasm, the desire for sleep she’s been putting off has returned with a vengeance. 

“I’m not sure I can make it to a bed,” she admits.

Flynn’s lips quirk and he pulls her up off the bench, wrapping an arm around her waist to help her balance. “I think I can manage to get you to one.”  
Lucy bites her lip, chewing internally on a question before letting it slip out anyway. “Will you stay if you do?”

That gives him pause. When he replies, it’s careful, weighted. “Would it help you sleep?”

“I think it might,” she answers.

“Do I have to decide right now?”

“You have the walk back to the house.”

“Fair enough.”

(He doesn’t stay, but he’s there when she wakes up. It’s more than nothing)


End file.
